Poetry competition CLOSED 7th August 2021 10:38pm
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On the pains, travails, and joys of writing poetry

poet Anonymous


Sometimes I find that I have lost my words --
and closed, are paths, that once were winding
and doused, are lights, that once were blinding.

They go to literary graves, I've heard--
and silence me, my voice, in binding
and dry the pen, the ink unwinding.

They're hiding in the summertime
I'm peeling layers off my skin
I'm finding nothing there to rhyme
Nothing lying deep within.

And if I hold you near me now
do you think that you might see
thoughts and letters swirling 'round,
drowning in transparency
-- of my dried up lines.
poet Anonymous


a lack of angst
is death to poetry, baby

remember that

kill the terror
and the poetry dries up

one needs to lay his poor bare ass
on a hot grease grill to write good poetry
needs to feel the heat
right up through the neck of the spine

needs to want to die the hard way
blue fingered and alone
in a dumpster full of meat on the hottest
goddamn day of the year
and every bleak word
the product of a long, hard adolescence
that lasted well into one's sixties
and ended just like you thought it would

a poet needs a bottle
hugged close
and a dirty needle
hidden in a run down sock
in the cabinet
behind the moldy mayonnaise

and a smoker's cough

and to not give a rat's ass
or so he says
but goddamn if everything doesn't matter --
every nuance of expression
every wink and roll of a pretty eye
of every woman who left
or stayed
and every time his mama
swatted him or didn't
and whether god
blessed him with the genes of an angel
or a demon from the depths of hottest hell
and why oh why oh me oh my
hold the Xanax, honey,
i think i wanna type this morning
poet Anonymous


It's time for a change of pace and produce something new
So naturally the next step is to focus on poo
I'm sorry Mrs. Jackson, did not intend to upset your daughter
I only tried to share a glass of my finest shit water
That pungent smell and the unmatched viscosity
These uncultured swine call it a terrible atrocity
They fail to consider the potential of art
One can produce with a fugazi fart
So coat your brush as well as ink blotter
This modern Picasso paints with only shit water
A master of strokes and a blender of cultures
The smell is so awful it repels even vultures
Create new beginnings while the toilet faces slaughter
The power within comes from stanky shit water
poet Anonymous

Mable: A Coy Dutchess

Two buns and some meat
A burger or some anal
Two drums of some skeet
The synagogue or the cradle
I have chosen the crib
The results could be fatal
This baby needs a bib
Some cream cheese for its bagel
It wants to reason with me
It’s age makes it unable
I’d ignore it if it could
Some would call me unstable
We sit at opposite ends
Of the mahogany table
I think “slip the tip in”
I want my hog in ye, Mable
But before I throatpie the infant
I gift my sack with a staple
My cock oozes sweet syrup
I’m not talking about maple
poet Anonymous

Your Orders

Tickle the cock, the balls, and the gooch
Then come around
Give anus a smooch
poet Anonymous

Blind Date with a Poem

The bitch on the tip of my tongue            
came out all wrong            
She wasn't sexy at all            
even when I dressed up her words            
with a flashy new font            
stripped them to the bone            
and edited their ass off            
still she sat            
poetic legs firmly crossed            
frowning on the page            
duller than a blind date nightmare            
with the Vogons            
She seemed as frumpy            
as old Granny Gluebones  
in a brown tweed suit            
peering through horn-rimmed glasses            
the ingredients of her poetic juice          
all dried up and confined to dust            
under rusty whalebone corsets          
a surefire recipe for writer's block            
So I tried my best            
to tickle her verbs            
I sprinkled her adjectives with spice    
jiggled her stanzas            
and teased her internals with rhyme           
but she never even winked            
Her verses were playing hard to get            
I would need more than a literary dildo--            
even Shakespeare might struggle          
to find a finger of inspiration here            
but my poet's pride demanded a result            
after all            
I was paying for her lines            
with my time            
Then at last            
on the cab ride home            
the miracle happened            
We were thrown together            
by a bump in the road            
and suddenly            
gracing the city lights            
her scent seemed headier      
than a classic rose            
In the twitch of a heartbeat            
she'd let her hair down            
taken off her glasses            
and unbuttoned the top of her blouse              
Her legs were no longer crossed            
Oh, she said:            
Is this what you want?            
Now, am I your kind of poem?
poet Anonymous

Lost Arts

Too many masterpieces
off the face
of the internet

Where there is joy
there is loss
where there is pain
there is sorrow

To create art is to interpret it
to be isolated and unfounded
misdirected or misfired
countless lives lost in wars

So many found in poetry
in expressions on the internet
How everything has to change
forget I even mentioned it.

poet Anonymous

Poets, believe me, they are beyond great!

Believe me,  
  I have met more poets than humans.
Believe me,  
     I find them apart and not among us.
Believe me,  
     I know they aren’t easy to behave towards.
Believe me,  
     I read unique feelings just by feeling their words!
They are  
     writing as they’re in heaven, not on Earth…
They are  
     absorbed on the beauties felt by humans, nonetheless  
They are  
     abstracted from human disabilities, despite that, damn,
They are  
     suffering their miseries because of the passion they feel for them!
     understanding beauty, poets link human senses with life discernment.
     making sense, to all kind of circumstances, poets provide substance.
     inspiring realization, for uncertain ways, poets' vision the path clears.
     giving hope in the deepest despair, poets wipe away the tears!
     enlightening they have been providing through History.
     belvederes for landscapes revealing novel life posture.
     remedies for alleviating the misfortunes of love, gently.
     demand humanity is still requesting, in need, for poetry!
     almost nothing in the whole humankind,  
     almost everything for each human being!
poet Anonymous

Drowning in a Bucket of Words

I may never escape my fate.
I have fallen  
and must drown,    
a shadow in a bucket of words--    
but I have always known this    
and so my sadness grows cosy    
until even the roses seem happy    
to remind me of life's thorns.    
Every day they float to the top,    
ragged pearls pretending wisdom    
words bursting around me    
bobbing free to tickle my chin    
nuzzling the tips of ears.    
To stay alive,  
I must help them escape    
although that act itself defeats my own purpose.    
Somehow I claw them into air,  
polish a deluge of memories    
before I choke and my head slips    
New phrases conspire as I sleep    
whispering to me in secret    
with tempting combinations    
to overpower and tire,    
each one eager to feast    
ready to gorge on time's blood    
their victory ever certain    
a pack of cocksure dogs gleefully chasing a cat    
and n'ere a tree in sight.    
In my waking hours they refuse to stop    
so I must kick to stay afloat    
toes curled tightly,  
I hug my knees and scream...    
when I was foolish enough to dream of my own escape    
when I still had strength to be bold,    
I summoned a giant's breath    
diving down for the bottom of the bucket    
until my lungs burned to explode.    
But there was    
no bottom to reach    
only letters    
mocking me in silence    
streaming slowly from tiny bubbles    
forming themselves    
into words.    
Perhaps one day    
you may stumble upon my death    
find my bloated belly    
grinning at the sky where it rests    
the price of freedom    
at last awash with words
poet Anonymous

The Thought Collector

I am the thought collector.  
With a synaptic net,  
I catch these fleeting reminders
Of my consciousness.  
Like a child in a field,  
Chasing down butterflies.  
Attempting to catch all the colors.  
Putting them in jars and  
Storing them on the shelves of my mind.  
Dusting off the fragile glass vessels  
That have become memories.  
Occasionally admiring my collection  
As it grows.  
My my, how full  
These shelves have become.  
Some strain under the weight of  
The vast array of all the species  
I have contained.  
Then it happens.  
The shelf bows and the jars slide.  
They come crashing down.  
Each shattering and releasing an
 Individual swarm.  
Like thick indigo waves  
Spiraling behind my eyes.  
Surrounding me.  
Forcing me to watch  
As they irratically dance  
Throughout my poor, frantic brain.  
The calm has become the storm.  
Then, through the madness,  
Comes the messenger.  
The one thought  
That can never be contained.  
Piercing the swarm,  
It delivers it's message.  
You are the thought collector."  
And with that,  
I pick up my synaptic net,  
Become the child in the field  
And like so many times before.  
 I begin collecting.  
poet Anonymous

Message to Poetry

To all the poems
I don't recall I wrote
to all the unfinished
mongrel scraps
left starving in the orphanage I made
To all the drunken solitary lines
blurted out to no-one
and never met a page
To the devils of inspiration
the stillborn squibs
with their cracked false dawns
sparking truths that never spat a flame
And to all the critical direction
the signposts leading nowhere
until the lights went down
to every bitter sweet burden
of rejection and acclaim

I want you to know
if I had time over
I would write you
all again

poet Anonymous

More than a muse

Is writing like your favourite pet?    
keep it warm in each typeset  
let it be the font that you select  
A luxury, the indulgent need    
the window's of a soul exposed    
the oak grows tall, from the acorns seed    
Loves carvings on the bark    
the knife that cut outlines of heart    
flint arrows, each line composed    
The line that's drawn, on the  archers  bow      
is it, the life coach, that helps you grow.    
Sinew, stretched taught in each elbow    
Vanities catgut tight, across the bridge    
resonance within the wood    
heard tune, in appreciation or misunderstood    
For the star's they whisper sweet    
a played refrain, in a myriad of key's    
the stillborn baby cries!    
Excitement is the act of exorcise,    
for the gaze.    
How cute that child,    
in each parent's eyes    
Is there time for prayers and grace?    
laurel's they will not suffice    
a starting pistol, the inner self, its own dictates,    
as clean white page awaits    
poet Anonymous

Verbal Exposures

I write pictures with my words
Like paint to canvas
One moment inspired
The next a feeling of a dead cliche
Yet it is only when I am noticed
That I even hear what it is I say

I put my heart on broken display
In the script of poetics and vain word play
Bleeding beauty from madness
In vulnerabilities flay

I develop dialogues with self
In the dark room of my thoughts
Every word I speak
The utterances of verbal snapshots

The page is a place where even pain is beautiful
As we tend to the garden

The sentiments, the harvest of despair
I whisper what i write
I feel as though I serenade the air
Every word is me, every word a fight...
poet Anonymous

My Valley

My eyes red and swollen,
I cry for you my dear sanity.
I’m losing it on all levels of existence,
Losing grip of my own humanity.

In search for truths I will not find,
Existing only to wonder and ponder.
The feeling of being and draw breath,
Alone and misunderstood I wander.

Through a valley of tears and broken dreams,
I walk the long and wavey trench of sorrow.
Wondering if I will ever reach the end,
Beginning a day without tomorrow.

A short period of enlightenment and relieve,
24 hours of pure bliss and euphoria.
An end to an unending cycle of ages,
Forever losing the feelings of dysphoria.

But the journey never seems to end,
Forever lost in the valley untraversed.
Marching until I have reached my limit.
Broken, beaten and unendingly cursed.
poet Anonymous

My Jury

An hour of administering impressant..    
Follows the next with a depressant..        
Completing a consistent twenty four hour cycle..        
A food chain?       
Life or a food web cycle..  
Call it..  
By chance I survive by some miracle..        
Know this, in what I do, I am being a hell of an actor..        
Neither the act..    
And fuck the fact..      
This is a factor..        
Persistent bipolar disorder..        
Stranded in a land of thunder..        
You well aware Alice we are well outside the realm of wonder..        
Something concrete building inside my head like the bricklayers reaching the linter..        
One in town..          
In chess a pawn?        
I am not your whistle blower..        
Nor is this a ringer..        
Still alive am just so very lucky..        
It doesn't sound funny..        
Like Oliver I'm so hungry..        
Going with the famous request;        
My throat is sore..        
"Please sir, I want some more" .        
Dear Jury,  
Or should I say bullies?  
Nobody can have a clue..        
As to what is my motive..        
Reaching a certain point..        
Muscles twitching I can feel it in my body joints..        
The pills..        
Abnormal range..        
In what I engage..        
Everyone's can notice I act strange..        
Whether a complainant or a defendant..      
My shell's not a hell..        
A shield's how I use my shell..        
Are you one among any of my jury..      
I don't care your verdict..    
Nor my affidavit..    
You are not so lucky..
                           Mollusc Man    
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